


What A Catch

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Femme Fatale, Film Noir, Mobsters, Private Investigator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart





	What A Catch

She was beautiful in the same way a bullet was; cold and deadly, bright and full of potential and he could see why her husband had picked her out of the many women that flocked around him, women who lined their lips in dark red, rouged their cheeks and had those big black eyes that aimed smoldering looks over the tops of dirty martinis and through the blue-grey haze of cigarette smoke. Those girls in their bright pretty dresses, glittering like diamonds. But not his girl. No, she was this sleek dark thing in a room of peacocks. Strong lean lines, hair swept back and away from her face and just enough make up to be intriguing and to sharpen her features; one beautiful visual line. Good choice for a mafia wife.

It made this job less of a chore as he downed another scotch and waited in this uptown joint, classier than his usual haunts, all mood lighting and soft smooth jazz filtering through, bartender in a clean shirt and waistcoat. The kind of place he normally spent his time in had paint peeling from the walls and what still managed to cling on until the bitter end had long since been stained nicotine yellow from years of heavy smoking. It stank of cheap liquor, piss and desperation, sleazy girls trying to make ends meet or forget about the husband that gave them the black eye no amount of makeup could hide and sleazier guys further serving to age those girls before their time before escaping back to the wife that nagged and the kids that were never satisfied and didn't know the first damn thing about respect. Or they were like him. Ex-cops turned private detectives who drank themselves into liver disease and who sat alone in their offices or tried to find leads on cases that had long since been given up on. Hopeful tear-stained faces walked in and out his door every day and he did his best although that was getting harder with the hangovers that hung over his head all day and the secretary that gave him those pitying looks every day. Even his old co-workers who handed over files or who passed on information kept nagging him to see the doctor or come home with them to have a real home-cooked meal made by their perfect wife in her pumps and nylons, dewy complexion and getting pleasantly plumper every couple of years. Setting herself and her husband up for old age and retirement and grandkids nicely.

This joint though, this joint had clean glasses that sparkled in the light, there were those thick coasters with cork on the bottom that didn't fall apart the second the slightest drop of condensation hit them and there weren't rings on the bar from glass after glass sitting there. Here, if he'd asked the bartender to leave the bottle, questions would have been asked. The people here were laughing and smiling, handshakes and kisses, perfumed ladies (bosomy swans his ex-boss had called them once) floating around and whispering in ears. There were couples dancing to the slower numbers, cheek to cheek, gentle swaying that just about made the hems of dresses swing.

He downed his shot and motioned for the bartender, for another or to settle up his tab he wasn't sure because the man was busy mixing something and he was still undecided about whether or not he should stick around to see if any of the group he'd been listening in on would say more when that same beautiful creature dropped down next to him on a barstool, clutch on the table and an annoyed look on her face.

"Whisky," she said, tapping out a cigarette from the silver box that probably cost a factory worker a week's wages, "make it a double." The bartender of course heard her straight away (although whether that could be attributed to her looks, her husband or to her order) and grabbed the appropriate bottle - the expensive stuff - and she lit up with a snap-click-whoosh and inhaled for one, two, three beats and exhaled through her nose. The drink was set down and she smiled, handed over a bill and told him to keep the change and took what sounded like an appreciative sip.

It really was a damn fine whisky she'd been given.

"Got expensive taste," he finally managed to say as the bartender refilled his glass too and she  
fixed him a look, rolled her eyes and took another drag on the cigarette.  
  
"Husband can afford it," she muttered, glass in one hand and the liquid swirling, casting amber reflections on her pale skin. "You couldn't though."  
  
"I like the stuff that skips past the bullshit and sets straight to pickling your liver."  
  
"Honey," she took another sip and the corners of her mouth lifted up into a smirk, "from that slump, five o'clock shadow and that hangdog look then there's not a damn thing worth preserving about you."

And for the first time since he'd been kicked off the force for screwing up investigations and getting a little too handsy with some of lowest of the lowlifes they dealt with and finally for turning up drunk a few too many weeks in a row, a laugh worked its way out of him and he shook his head, downing half his drink in one go.

"Ain't a damn thing worth preserving about any of us. Frank Parsons," he said, holding out one hand to her and after a hesitation of a second, she set her glass down and held out hers.  
  
"Ava Gagliardi."  
  
"Wife to Don Gagliardi?"  
"Don't play dumb, I can't abide stupid people and everyone in this damn city knows just who I'm married to." She shook her head and again another plume of smoke clouded her features as she glanced over her shoulder and he did too and sure enough, there was her husband and his boys, heads bent together and hands all flying.  
  
"Husband send you away so the men can talk?"  
  
"That's none of your damn business," she snapped archly, bristling and drawing herself up so her shoulders were forced back and her head was held high. Obviously a woman with pride as well. Man sure knew how to pick the people in his life. "Christ, sometimes wonder why the hell I ever came here."  
  
"You're not from around these parts?"  
  
"Country girl, stars in her eyes, wanted to see the big city and try to get herself a job. Instead I land myself a husband and don't know just what I'm getting into until I've got a ring on my finger and a family that won't speak to me no more."  
  
"Place isn't so bad," he replied and well, not the information he was looking for but it was maybe a start and he needed to give that woman who came by the office every weekend _something_ before he either keeled over or she gave up and threw herself off a bridge. "S'what the liquor's for."  
  
"I'm not holding any desire to turn out like my mama or my papa."

He wanted to say more but there was a scrape of chairs from the table behind them and a line of men slipped past, buttoning up their long dark coats and tipping their hats to Ava on their way out before her husband, Don Gagliardi himself, taller than he ever looked in the photographs, slipped up behind them both. There was nothing comforting or loving about the arm he slid around his wife's waist - that was a gesture of ownership. This is mine, is what it said to Frank, you can look and smile and buy it all the drinks you like but if one thing happens that I don't like then you'll know all about.

"Sorry sweetheart," he said, boyish grin that looked wrong on the face of a man who ran the gangs and ordered hits on those who dared to defy him, "we'd have bored you silly anyway."  
  
"Mhm," she tilted her head up though for a kiss on the cheek and handed her cigarette over at the same time, finishing her whisky.  
  
"Everything tastes sweeter when it's been close to you," he commented, all slippery charm and Frank wanted to throw up and knocked back the last of his drink; the tone used was low but still meant for others and Jesus, he hated those guys who kept a wife as a trophy and had to flaunt all their possessions. "Thanks for keeping the little lady company," Gagliardi held out a hand, "Carmine Gagliardi."  
  
"Frank Parsons."  
  
"The private investigator?"  
  
"Detective. Private detective."  
  
"Really now? Not investigating little old me are you?"

Somehow, Frank managed to laugh and in that time Ava's coat was being slipped over her shoulders and she was on her feet, husband ushering her towards the door but not before Frank fished the least crumpled and beaten of his cards out of his pocket, holding it out to her.

"You never know," he explained with a shrug, pulling his wallet out to start settling his tab for the night and she looked it over before nodding, slipping it into her clutch.  
  
"Thanks for the scintillating conversation. Maybe I'll see you around some time."

And then she and Carmine were gone, Gagliardi's fedora tipped low and her sashaying out in matte black heels into the night.


End file.
